


The Love of His Life

by mznaughty01



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Infidelity, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mznaughty01/pseuds/mznaughty01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as Derek loves Stiles, Stiles loves Derek. And Stiles knows it's just not possible for him to hate someone that he loves with his whole heart, with every ounce of his soul, no matter how much he should. Jesus, does he know. Knows it probably better than any other person currently alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love of His Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [The Love of His Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2731994) by [Sara_Kain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Kain/pseuds/Sara_Kain)



> If any of you guys follow my SPN works, then you're probably already aware that I've been taking some of my original fics and turning them into fanfics over the past few months. I've done the same thing here with this piece, the last of my original fics that isn't a WIP. It is now Sterek.
> 
> Same as with just about everything that comes from me, this is darker in tone, but with an HEA (because I'm a hopeless romantic no matter what cruelties I subject my characters to, lol).
> 
> ETA - The very essence of the relationship depicted in this fic is unhealthy and emotionally abusvie. The HEA I refer to above is based on the hope that things may get better in the future, not necessarily that things are better at the end of the story. If you're sensitive to such issues, this may not be the story for you.

Some days, Stiles spends hours wondering how many people have received the good fortune, or misfortune depending upon perspective, of crossing paths with _the one_?

 _The one_ their hearts love and hunger for so deeply they find themselves willingly staying in a situation their brains, their friends and their families all warn them to get out of. _The one_ they can't make themselves leave for remembrance of the soaring highs they've experienced together to rival the wondrous peaks of Mt. Olympus...in spite of the fact they've also experienced lows together equivalent to the murky bottom of the River Styx. _The one_ better known as their salvation, their curse, the creator of the most exultant moments of their lives, the architect of their darkness days.

Yeah, _the one_...aka _him_. The man they've laughed with, laughed at, cried on, cried over and given themselves to so completely, he has a part of them that can never, ever be recaptured. A part of them that they’re thankful they’ve trusted to him simply because he loves them for no other reason than because of who they are; that same part of them they later hate themselves for foolishly giving to him while uncovering his latest lie, betrayal, infidelity.

Stiles has had the pleasure, fortunately, of meeting and marrying _the one_ for him. Or, unfortunately, depending on when he’s asked. His answer varies with the time of the year, the time of the month, the day of the week, or, sometimes, even with the hour of the day.

The love of Stiles’s life is Derek Hale.

But, regardless of how convinced Stiles is of his love for Derek—regardless of how much effort he’s expended trying to convince Dad (Jesus Christ, Stiles, _a Hale_? I know it’s been a while since you’ve been back home, but you _do_ still remember that I’m a goddamn member of law enforcement, right?) and Scott (Why, Stiles? Why him? Why _Derek_?) and Allison (Stiles, I’m so sorry.) and, gulp, Lydia (Are you an idiot, Stiles? Or just a complete moron?) of the justness of his love for Derek and the validity of Derek’s love for him—right about now, between Derek trying to wake Stiles up, and his actions over the past few months, he is dangerously close to making Stiles detest him. _Dangerously_ close. Especially considering it’s already a line that Stiles has been toeing for quite some time.

With a mumbled prayer for someone, _anyone_ , to strike Derek on the spot with a crippling case of arthritis, Stiles pulls the sheet over his head for the third time. He rolls onto his side, presenting Derek with his back and hoping the asshole will take the hint and leave him be. So, of course, Derek yanks the sheet out of Stiles’s hands, even going so far as to rip it completely off the bed this time.

"Up," Derek says calmly.

"The fuck is your problem?" is Stiles’s response. Sitting up, he focuses on the cable box located on a shelf of the chrome and black tv stand beneath Derek's pride and glory sixty-five inch flat screen (his pride and glory that Stiles has found himself tempted way too often lately to punch a hole through, the only thing stopping him being his hard on for high definition and appreciation of technology in general—because, watching the Mets play on that thing? Totally awesome experience!). Stiles’s eyes nearly bug out his head when the blurriness recedes and he’s able to read the time. He'd known it was early, but not "It's four in the morning!" early.

"We need to talk." Derek lowers himself to sit on the bed next to Stiles, laying a hand on the upper portion of Stiles’s lower leg. With the pads of his fingers, he draws a slow, tantalizing path upwards, stopping when he reaches the hem of the boxers Stiles is wearing.

Stiles’s body, finely tuned and willing instrument of Derek’s that it is, thrums in anticipation. He’s beyond irritated at the easily elicited response (Jesus Christ, being a twenty-four year old guy with a healthy interest in sex now, now, now—how ‘bout now?—really sucks sometimes). After removing Derek’s hand, and spending an appropriate amount of time sputtering in disbelief, Stiles chokes out a second, "It's four in the morning!"

"Something important has come up." Ignoring the silent rebuke, Derek moves his hand to Stiles’s thigh again, using the tips of his fingers to make whisper light, lazy circles on the skin. "That needs to be addressed now."

"Goddamn it, stop that." Stiles slaps Derek’s hand away. Derek’s skin against Stiles’s skin, his heady aroma of expensive cologne and masculine musk in Stiles’s nose, the heat radiating off of him and his very nearness have always served as the ultimate combination that Stiles has never been able to resist. "And in case you're not understanding me...it's four o-clock in the fucking morning. Alternately known as buttfuck o’clock in some places and what-the-fuck o’clock in others."

"I'm aware of the time, Stiles. You've established it for me quite firmly," Derek replies. He flicks on the light located on the nightstand next to the bed. "But we still need to talk."

"Derek, I can assure you that there is nothing, and I do mean _nothing_ , that I’m interested in hearing you say at—"

"Four o’clock in the morning," Derek interrupts. "Whether you want to hear what I have to say or not doesn’t matter." He exhales, leaning back against the black microfiber headboard and folding his hands behind his head. "Because you're going to hear it regardless."

That's the point Stiles starts to worry. Although nothing Derek has said or done indicates anything is out of the norm, Stiles can just _feel_ that something isn't right. After three years of marriage, preceded by two years of dating, he is far beyond the point of just being able to merely _read_ Derek, he can _decipher_ him. And Derek’s current somberness indicates his always present, never goes away man pain has reached epic levels of epicness.

Top to bottom, then bottom to top, Stiles looks Derek over to satisfy himself that all is as it is supposed to be. Both greenish-hazel eyes are still in their sockets, both ears are unharmed, his proud, straight nose is unbroken, and neither his top lip nor the bottom one are split violently open. Since his cupped together, threaded fingers are the current resting place for his head of short, wavy, dark brown hair, Stiles assume that none are missing. No dark stains indicative of blood mar the crisp whiteness of Derek’s shirt and his tie appears unstained and none the worse for wear besides being undone, one end dangling casually over a broad shoulder.

Stiles’s heart skips a beat as another possibility occurs...

Scooting to the end of the bed, he grabs Derek’s legs and hauls them up next to him. Derek’s socks yanked off, Stiles counts his toes.

"What's the deal?" The question comes only after Stiles has reassured himself with a second count that nothing is amiss with Derek’s feet besides the fact that they’re _his feet_ (Stiles loves his husband, always, and adores him, most days, but that doesn’t mean that he loves and adores all parts of him equally because a foot man Stiles is not). Although Derek’s profession keeps them in the nicest clothes, the most fashionable rides and a beautiful house right on the lake, it also makes for some long nights, with the constant fear of the arrival of _the night_ that Derek doesn't come back home because he never will again. Checking Derek over for damage has sadly become somewhat of a ritual for Stiles, performed for the sanity of his mind two to three times a month. Only half jokingly, Stiles adds, "Is that nasty thing called a conscience troubling you?"

Instead of answering, Derek counters with a question of his own when he tries to massage Stiles’s back resulting in Stiles moving to the far side of the bed and out of Derek’s reach. "Why can't I touch you?"

Stiles almost suffocates on a snort of disdain. Does Derek truly want to play this game right now? He knows well the reason Stiles won't let him near.

Kate Argent. Allison’s beautiful, refined aunt who had recently arrived in town for what was only supposed to have been a short visit with her brother and his family after years of no contact that is now at the three month mark and counting. Kate is also the heiress to the Argent criminal empire that Allison’s dad refuses to take any part in. And she’d been purposefully introduced to Derek by his uncle, Peter Hale.

The current Boss of the Hale crime family, a position he’d been appointed to on the death of Derek’s father ten years ago in a mysterious house fire that had also killed Derek’s mother and two sisters, and a whole shitload of other family members all bearing the last name of Hale, Peter is a scheming psychopath. Who hates Stiles. Because Stiles is a man, lacks the proper bits to give Derek a child, is a man and, oh, yeah, _because Stiles is a man_.

It doesn’t even make Stiles twitch anymore when Peter mumbles under his breath about pillow biting fairies whenever they’re both in the same room together.

"What's the matter, Derek?" Stiles’s tone is deliberately mocking, a mask. He stares straight ahead, eyes locking onto the white sheet lying in a far corner of the room, using it as an anchor. "Hot ass Kate not so hot for your touch anymore? She banish you home to me?"

"You're the one with my last name, Stiles, not her."

"Ohhh," Stiles chortles, "now you remember. How convenient it must be to forget whenever the mood strikes you." Stiles wants to add, _would that I could do the same_ , but knows better than to give voice to that truth.

"I never forget," Derek states. "Never." 

The hurt of thinking about Derek’s ongoing conquest makes Stiles rub his chest with a grimace. It's a dull ache that has been his constant companion ever since Kate’s arrival. It's never worsened since the day Peter had “accidentally” outed Derek’s affair with Kate to Stiles, never lessened, simply maintained its consistency.

And _that_ is what makes it that much more painful. It's like comparing the one time occurrence of the stab of a knife to the constant pricking of a needle.

The first, while worse on face value, has time to heal after it's occurred. Like Derek's one-time indiscretion with an old female friend he hadn't seen in years or the one-time he'd slept with some twink from a club whose name he couldn't even remember afterwards. It happened. Stiles found out as Derek is so sure that Stiles will never escape to a place he can't follow that he never undertakes any huge efforts to hide any of the things he does. They moved on.

But the second never has the opportunity to heal. It stays open, making the wound prone to infections. And that's exactly what is happening. The hurt is festering in Stiles’s heart, driving him almost to the point of hating Derek.

Almost...but not quite.

Stiles flops onto his back, wondering why it is that it is so hard for him to loathe Derek. Everything about him is loathsome. From his unabashed involvement in organized crime, allegedly ranging from prostitution to drug dealing according to the near weekly reports on the news, to the matter of fact way he dishes out violence (and, yes, probably taken a life or ten), he is despicable through and through.

Relinquishing his spot against the headboard, Derek lies down on the bed, facing Stiles, and stretches out his right arm. He reaches the portion of Stiles’s hip exposed by the scrunching up of the tank top Stiles has on. He rests his hand there lightly, fingering the band of Stiles’s boxers.

"Why?" Stiles asks.

"Because I flew us out to Massachusetts just so that I could put this ring—" Derek’s hand moves to grasp Stiles’s left one, bringing the object in question into Stiles’s view "—on your finger. This ring means I love you, care for you and worship you. It means that I can't live without you. It means that a life without you isn't worth living."

"But why can't _I_ make myself hate _you_?" Stiles snarls. "I should. I really, truly fucking should."

"You're absolutely right, you should," Derek agrees, voice quiet. He falls silent for several long seconds. "But you know why you can't."

And Stiles does. Just as Derek loves Stiles, Stiles loves Derek. And Stiles knows it's just not possible for him to hate someone that he loves with his whole heart, with every ounce of his soul, no matter how much he should. Jesus, does he know. Knows it probably better than any other person currently alive.

Stiles wants to hate Derek, but it’s impossible for him to do so because he’s loved Derek since the very first day he set eyes on him as he’d walked into the mall Stiles had been walking out of. Right from the very start, right from that brief moment their eyes had collided together explosively, Stiles had been able to sense the undercurrent of dangerousness surrounding Derek. Knew that everything about Derek was the antithesis of what Stiles wanted to accomplish in his life. But the threat Derek presented to Stiles’s sheltered, organized existence had excited Stiles and he’d gladly provided Derek’s stoic faced friend with each and every number Derek could use to contact Stiles when Derek had him follow Stiles back to his car with a simple message: "Dinner. Tonight. L20."

"Don't touch me.” Stiles slings Derek’s hand away, immediately becoming aware of how his skin burns at the loss of a touch he’s been deprived of for so long.

Derek pushes up on an elbow and stares down at Stiles. Deathly calm, he asks, "Has someone else been touching you?"

"Screw. You." Although Stiles refuses to meet Derek’s gaze, a shiver courses through his body nonetheless. The threat may have been unspoken, but it was there, loud and clear. The ruthlessness which resides just beneath Derek’s calm façade is chilling.

Grasping Stiles’s chin between thumb and forefinger, Derek attempts to turn his head towards him, but Stiles resists. "Look at me. Now." The order is unmistakable. Incontrovertible. Derek waits for obedience before he speaks again. "No one is to ever touch what's mine. Got it?"

Apparently Stiles doesn’t respond quickly enough. Derek invades Stiles’s space, not stopping until his face is just inches away. "Do you understand me, Stiles?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Derek. I got it. Capiche. Yo comprendo. I fucking understand." Unable to abstain a second time from the temptation of saying something that he shouldn't, Stiles adds, "Because, unlike you, I _honor_ my vows."

It hasn't always been that way, however. Despite the close guard Derek keeps on Stiles (and _because_ of it), Stiles had managed to cheat on him before. Once.

Months after it had occurred, Stiles had found out about Derek’s very first infidelity; surely not his first since they'd been together, but the first to come to Stiles’s attention. Derek had fucked the stripper hired to work his bachelor party the night before he’d pledged himself to Stiles in front of God, their families and their closest friends. Stiles had been hurt beyond belief, drowning in his need for revenge, which had ultimately set the path to his own indiscretion.

To this day, Stiles still doesn’t know how Derek had discovered what Stiles had done so quickly, but Derek had taken him out to dinner the very next night to the restaurant of their first date. Derek had sat across from Stiles, comfortably sprawled in his chair, and had smiled and joked with Stiles. All evening, an internal war had waged within Stiles, one which his guilty conscience had slowly, but surely, been winning.

_Stiles takes a bite of his food, cover to stop himself from blurting out the confession dancing on the tip of his tongue, when Derek throws him for a complete loop by saying, "He'll live this time."_

_"What?" Stiles asks, confused. Derek is talking about someone close to Stiles as Derek never discusses anything pertaining to his family’s business, or any of the people associated with it, in Stiles’s presence. If the Feds ever succeed in their relentless pursuit to demolish the Hale crime family, Derek wants to make sure that no matter what happens to everybody else, that no matter what happens to him, Stiles is able to walk away from the ruins free and clear. No questions asked._

_"I said, he'll live this time," Derek repeats with a wink that isn't charming or attractive._

_Quite the opposite, it’s downright scary. He's truly given meaning to the phrase "in the blink of an eye" because with that wink he transforms from laughing and playful to glacial._

_"Who?" Stiles has a suspicion about who Derek is talking about, but..._

_"Danny." Derek dashes Stiles’s hopes immediately. "He's with Ethan and Aiden right now. Matter fact—" he glances at his watch "—they should be finishing up with him in about another ten minutes or so."_

_Confronted with the consequences of his actions, Stiles lurches to his feet. He suffers from no disillusions:_ He'd brought this down on Danny _. Whatever punishment Danny is suffering through directly relates to Stiles and his persistence. Danny had ignored each time Stiles had asked him if he found Stiles attractive, denied Stiles’s advances when Stiles decided to kick it up a notch, several times and quite forcefully at that, all because he hadn’t wanted to be disloyal to Derek._

_But the man ordered to protect Stiles all the times Derek wasn’t around to do so himself could only be expected to resist for so long. The outcome had been a foregone conclusion when Stiles, determined to have his revenge, sought comfort from Danny who was a nice guy. And Danny had been in the right place at the right time...and he was gay. Once a bottle of Jack had been mixed into the equation, and inhibitions forgotten in the haze of drunkenness, one thing had led to another and the recipe for a deadly disaster had been born._

_"Sit down, Stiles," Derek orders. "People are looking at you."_

_"I don't give a shit, let them," Stiles hisses, voice broken. "If you don't call off those sociopaths right fucking right now and tell them to release Danny, I'll—I'll-"_

_"You'll what?" Derek’s innate cruelty is reflected in the harsh lines of his handsome face and the coolness of his eyes._

_Just like that, Stiles realizes the futility of his protests. He isn’t having a confrontation with his husband, someone he possibly stands a chance, slim though it may be, of getting through to. He is having a confrontation with Derek Hale, Underboss of the Hale crime family._

_And there will never be a way to reason with The Wolf. His unreasonableness is legendary._

_As Danny is being pummeled to a bloody, broken pulp, possibly on his way to_ taking a swim with the fish _, Stiles is in one of the most expensive restaurants in Chicago. With a half eaten_ salmon steak _as his dinner. The irony is washed away in a wave of nausea which forces Stiles down to his seat._

_"Finish your meal," Derek encourages, as if there is nothing wrong. "You've barely eaten."_

_Stiles pushes the food around his plate, appetite that had been lacking to begin with now completely gone. "Why are you doing this, Derek? He's your_ fucking _friend."_

_"He's not my friend. He's just an associate. One of many." Derek takes a slow sip of the white wine he'd purchased at the waiter's suggestion. "And he owes me a considerable amount of money."_

_"If that is truly why you are doing this, then why tell me about it? What happened to separation of Stiles and Hale?"_

_"Just thought you might be concerned when Danny isn't present to keep you company tomorrow. It's come to my attention that you and him have become rather close lately."_

_But that isn't all of it. Isn't even the _half_ of it. And Stiles wants Derek to admit it. "And?"_

_"And what? Do you know of some other reason I should be upset with Danny?" Derek meets Stiles’s gaze full on and Stiles can read the challenge written in Derek’s. "Is there something you'd care to share, Stiles?"_

_"I don't know anything." The best help Stiles can provide for Danny is to just keep his fucking mouth shut. Because Stiles’s admission will be as good as the signature on Danny’s death certificate if Derek doesn't already know just how out of hand things had truly gotten between them. Stiles drops his eyes to the table. "I know he’ll live, but will he be okay?"_

_With a growl, Derek shouts for the waiter to bring the check. It isn't until the bill is paid, the car retrieved by the valet, and they’re halfway to being back home that Derek bothers to answer the question. "I like Danny, that's why he'll live, why he’ll be okay. Next time he won't. Fuck that, the next person, man or woman, won't. Remember that, Stiles."_

That night had haunted Stiles for years. He couldn't figure out why Derek had punished Danny but not him and that had scared Stiles shitless. He’d lived his life worried that one day Derek would snap and decide it was time for retribution.

And then it had hit Stiles.

Derek had already had his revenge. For Danny, it had been expressed in bodily injury. For Stiles, it had all been mental.

The soft brush of lips on his chest draws Stiles back to the present. Derek had used Stiles’s inattention to move in closer and edge Stiles’s tank top up. Stiles is about to push Derek back, and demand he stay away once more, but he’s stilled by the words Derek murmurs, "Fuck, I've missed you."

Before Stiles can reply, Derek sucks a nipple gently into his mouth. He sets an alternating pattern of swirling his tongue around it and sucking on it. It's been so long since Stiles has experienced Derek’s touch, the sensation lights an immediate path of fire leading straight to his cock. Derek let’s go of the tight bud, then makes his way over to its twin to pay it just as much care and attention.

For several moments, Derek switches between the two, sucking and nuzzling. Stiles twists and turns, stuck between wanting to tell Derek to stop and to encourage him to go on. A moan escapes Stiles’s throat...definite sign of encouragement.

But Stiles has to maintain control. He'd long ago accepted the fact that Derek would never leave him nor would he let Stiles leave. Found that out the hard way when he'd escaped in the middle of the night and drove to some little town in the mountains of Tennessee...only to be startled awake in his paid for by cash motel room early the next morning by Derek breaking down the door while letting loose a furious roar followed by the claiming of Stiles’s mouth in a rough kiss that spoke of possession and the fucking of Stiles's ass so hard and long that Stiles had been coming dry at the end. Variations of that same scene had played out in a motel in Alabama, an expensive resort in Florida and in a car rented by Stiles under the pseudonym Dylan O’Brien and parked at a truck stop in Pennsylvania where Stiles had been resting his eyes for a bit. Which means the only control Stiles has in his screwed up relationship with Derek is extremely limited and normally expressed in the form of the withholding of sex.

Sliding both hands into Derek’s hair, Stiles holds Derek tight against his chest as Derek’s tongue continues its expert, teasing dance. Then he exercises his control...by dragging Derek away with a vicious yank.

"Goddamn it, that fucking hurt!" Derek explodes as he pries Stiles’s fingers loose.

"Not nearly as much as the hurt I've felt all these weeks knowing about you and Kate," Stiles replies, just tired of it all. "Go bed your girlfriend, Derek, and leave me alone."

"I don't want to fuck Kate, Stiles. Right now I want to fuck my husband and I have every intention of doing exactly that."

"You do?" Stiles gives an exaggerated glance around the room, making it obvious that he’s looking to see if there's another person present. "You got a second husband hanging around here that I don't know about?" They lock eyes. "Cause you sure as hell ain't about to fuck me."

"Believe that if you want." Before Stiles know what's happening, Derek’s on top of him, pinning him down. Stiles struggles to dislodge him, but fails. Though they are just about the same height, Derek slightly taller, Stiles’s one hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones is nothing in comparison to Derek’s two hundred pounds of solid muscle. Fisting one hand in Stiles hair, Derek uses the leverage to tilt Stiles’s head up, painfully bringing them face-to-face. "But I know better."

"You gonna take it from me, huh? Is that what you're going to do?" Stiles ceases his fight. "Make no mistake, Hale, if you go any further right now, then you _will_ be taking it. And that makes you no better than _he_ was."

They glare at each other. And for one horrific second, Stiles is honestly scared that Derek will continue. Derek has _never_ handled rejection very well.

"Jesus, Stiles," Derek finally breathes, lowering his face to bury in the crook of Stiles’s neck.

Stiles had been taken against his will before. By a man he'd once trusted. And Derek had seen firsthand the devastated wreck the violation had made of Stiles. It had only been with his help and guidance that Stiles had risen from the ashes of what was supposed to have been his total and complete destruction a stronger, better person.

When Stiles had first met Derek, he'd been involved with someone else. A guy he'd met on college campus and had been informally dating off and on. As Stiles had been focused on his studies, to him it was nothing more than a casual fling, a mutually beneficial arrangement to provide them both with weekend entertainment and weeknight sexual satisfaction.

To Matt Daehler, it had been more. Much more.

Stiles had been ignoring Matt's calls for weeks as his intense relationship with Derek heated up. Though the calls, and subsequent voicemails and text messages, increased at a startling rate, he'd brushed them all off as the product of a guy who was just imperceptive and hadn't yet reached the correct conclusion.

A knock came at Stiles’s door the very evening he'd decided it was time to take it to the next level with Derek. Naturally, that’s who he’d assumed was at the door as it was only twenty minutes from the time Derek had said he’d be over, so Stiles had answered the door, naked and with a fist wrapped around his erection, without requesting his visitor first identify themselves or without taking any other measures to verify who it was that had come to visit him.

But it hadn't been Derek at the door. It had been Matt.

A very drunk, very hurt, very aggressive, very much armed with a gun Matt.

When Derek had showed up, Matt had still been present, not quite done yet. When the police had showed up, Stiles had been incoherent and unresponsive to anyone or anything other than Derek. Mysteriously, Matt had been gone by that point though Stiles wasn’t aware of how it had happened.

As Stiles had lain in his hospital bed, sedated off his ass, with tubes and IVs projecting from every part of his body, Derek had excused himself to make a call. It was right after the departure of the doctor who'd given voice to the grim extent of Stiles’s injuries. In that twenty minute encounter with Matt, Stiles had amassed a collapsed lung, a broken rib, a fractured wrist and generalized ano-rectal trauma.

Stitches had been required.

Derek had only gone as far as the hall and he'd left the door open just a crack. Stiles had been privy to the entire two second conversation: " _Kill him_."

"You know I would never do that to you," Derek says between light sucks of Stiles’s neck. "But I need you right now." Grabbing Stiles’s hand, he brings it to the crotch of his slacks, groaning at the brush of fingers on his cock. “Bad.”

Stiles’s defenses are being whittled away. It's been too long and he _wants_. "No—"

"Yes," Derek counters. He grinds slowly against Stiles’s hand. Of their own accord, Stiles’s fingers grasp the hard length, eliciting a guttural groan from Derek. "Jesus, fuck, yes."

And Stiles realizes he’s lost.

Yesterday, Derek had been Kate's and no doubt tomorrow he will be hers again. But, for right now, _Derek is Stiles’s_.

Still gyrating against Stiles’s grip, Derek asks, "Stiles...?"

"Yes, I want you to fuck me, goddamn it."

"No." At Stiles’s narrowed eyes, Derek grins. "I'm not going to fuck you, but I am going to make love to you."

Derek yanks the tank top over Stiles’s head and tosses it to the side. Stiles doesn't see where it lands, but his suspicion is that it's in the same vicinity as the sheet. Kisses are placed on Stiles’s forehead, his nose, his lips and his stomach. Derek mouths at Stiles’s straining cock through the boxer briefs, then slides the underwear off Stiles’s body.

Stiles is completely bare and Derek sits on his haunches at the foot of the bed, between Stiles’s open legs. His eyes drift over every visible inch of Stiles. And if Derek decides at that very moment to not to go any further, then it’s all right because he's already done exactly as he said he would.

Those beautiful eyes, full of reverence, had just made love to Stiles.

Grabbing Stiles’s left leg, Derek cocks it at the knee and places Stiles’s foot flat on the bed. The right is placed in the exact same position, several feet away from the left. Stiles’s cock is a long, hard line which is flat against his belly and just begging for attention.

Derek stares, fascinated. Then he lowers his head and licks, starting from behind Stiles’s balls and ending at the wet tip of Stiles’s dick. Hips surging upwards, Stiles almost succeeds in inadvertently knocking Derek away.

"I think this may be too much, too fast." Derek chuckles darkly. He flips onto his back, spread along the full length of the bed again, and a wave of disappointment flows through Stiles (because Stiles is always down for getting his dick wet in _Derek’s mouth_ ).

Fuck, and if it is too much, too fast, then it is also _all Derek’s fault_.

"You look disappointed," Derek says, sounding amused. "And I can see that a smart ass comment is about to come flying out that mouth of yours. So, before you speak, how 'bout you see what else I have in store for you first." When Stiles doesn't object, Derek instructs, "Straddle me."

Stiles climbs on top of him, wondering if Derek plans to just whip out his dick for Stiles to ride while remaining fully clothed himself. Kinky...but not exactly Stiles’s idea of making love.

"Higher," Derek says.

"What?"

"You're too low. I need you up higher."

Honestly confused as to what Derek wants, Stiles doesn't move. So Derek takes the initiative, grabbing hold to Stiles’s ass and sliding him up to where he wants...on his knees, nuts positioned directly over Derek’s mouth. "I'm giving control to you. You set the pace."

They’d never done this before. Derek had always been the dominant partner in all ways. The thought flutters through Stiles’s head that accepting a more submissive role is something that Kate had introduced Derek to (which, given the cajones on that bitch, is probably a pretty accurate assumption), but Stiles shuts it down. He doesn’t want to know. He just wants to enjoy.

Stiles angles his dick down, away from his stomach, and slides it into Derek’s mouth. Derek palms Stile’s ass and uses the leverage to ease Stiles forward. The tempo starts out slow, steady. But Stiles wants more, still wants revenge. Petty? A little. So what.

He grabs hold to the headboard. Pulls his hips back. Then slams his cock straight into Derek’s throat.

"Fuck," Stiles groans, feeling the approach of his long denied release as he roughly fucks Derek’s face. "Fuck, Derek, _fu_ —" The orgasm is on him, goaded by the hot ass fucking sight of Derek’s face between his thighs, mouth stuffed full of Stiles’s pulsing cock. "Oh, my god. Oh, my—"

Staring up into Stiles eyes, Derek swallows. And Stiles is done. Just straight up done.

A smack to the ass is what reawakens him. He’s flat on his back again, Derek next to him, naked and propped up on an elbow. His huge, engorged cock pokes Stiles in the side as he ruts against him.

"Thought you were maybe done for the night," Derek comments, and even though his voice is wrecked (fuck, yeah, Stiles had done that!), he’s laughing.

“So not funny. I could’ve, like, drowned you or something.” Because Stiles had been damn near the point of drowning _himself_ from the inside out as a result of his backlog.

Serious now, Derek says, "Listen, I have something important to tell you, something important and, uh, I—”

“Jesus, dude, this is one painful attempt at a conversation. You really have reached epic levels of epicness, haven’t you?”

“Epic levels of epicness—what the _hell_ are you talking, Stiles?”

Stiles huffs out a deep breath. “Just—” He waves a hand. “Whatever it is, just say it. Get on with it.”

“I've been a fucking idiot."

“Du-uh.”

Derek climbs on top of Stiles. "Let me make it up to you?"

“With _sex_? You seriously think that—” And, remember, twenty-four year old guy here with a healthy interest in sex now, now, now—how ‘bout now?—who hasn’t seen any action outside of his right hand in a _long_ time. “Sex is good. Sex is _very_ good.”

That’s how Stiles finds his ass stuffed full of Derek’s dick. No prep work required. Because Derek had apparently been busy lubing and stretching Stiles open while he had been out for the count after the expellation (wait, is that even a word?) earlier of all of his brain cells through his dick. How long, exactly, _had_ Stiles been in that sex coma?

"Jesus,” Derek breathes, “you are so fucking tight."

While Derek continues on with the rhapsodizing of the snug fit of Stiles’s ass, Stiles goes for his. He bucks up, the feeling of Derek inside of him and the friction of Derek’s stomach against his aching dick a satisfying combination that can only have one ending.

"Don't move," Derek growls out. "Or it's going to be over soon."

“Yeah, no, I’m moving,” Stiles pants.

Almost there...almost there...almost—

 _There_.

Tumbling over the edge, ripping apart at the seams, Stiles comes again. Derek comes with him this time, in hot, jerking spurts that fill Stiles up.

"I willingly admit that I've been a fool," Derek mutters afterwards, licking a wet stripe up the side of Stiles’s throat. "But I’ve been a fool for good reason.”

“Yeah?”

“It scares me, has always scared me, to make love to you."

"And _that_ , ladies and gentlemen, would be the extremely illogical reason Derek Hale took Stiles Stilinski as his lawfully wedded husband."

Derek lies down next to Stiles with a grunt of frustration. "What is it with you and the smart ass fucking comments all the goddamn time.”

“What do you expect me to say when you tell me that you’re scared to have sex with me, _your husband_? Sarcasm is my best defense here, man. Sue me.”

“Look, I’m fucking this all up. What I’m trying to say is that it scares me to make love to you, be intimate with you in any kind of way, because every time I do, you always take a small part of my soul and leave behind a slightly larger piece of yourself in its place."

"That was, wow, that was kinda deep, Derek.” Jesus, is this really Stiles’s emotionally constipated husband talking about his _feelings_? Will wonders never cease to exist? “And that scares you? Why?"

“In my line of business, yeah it does. You make me less The Wolf and too much human. A liability.” A few beats pass in silence. “I found out tonight that Peter ordered that fire be set and I—” Derek pauses, clears his throat. “Peter is dead.”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “Did you, did you, are you the—”

A finger at Stiles’s lips stops him from going any further down the path of that line of questioning. “Stiles,” Derek says, “I _need_ you to...to...”

Derek’s finger slips away and it soon becomes clear that he has no plans to continue with what he had been about to say so Stiles prompts, “You need me to do what, Derek?”

“I need you to keep me human. To not _ever_ let me become anything like my uncle.”

"I can do that.” Stiles shudders remembering his various encounters with Peter, many of which had included creepy staring that told the whole story about the easiness with which Stiles could be disposed of if Peter had truly wanted, then nods. “I can definitely do that.”

“And I’m sorry,” Derek adds in a whisper. It’s the first apology Stiles can ever remember receiving from him over anything. “For Kate, I’m sorry. I never should’ve—shit, I've fucked up so bad. But it is over now. It never should’ve even started to begin with, but it’s over. I’ve sent her on back home to Gerard and I can guarantee that she won’t be back.”

Playing the fool has never been Stiles’s thing. He’s fully aware that while Derek's infatuation with Kate may be over and done with, she won't be the last. Probably. Or maybe she will be. But he doesn’t want to think about it because tomorrow is soon enough to deal with what is yet to come.

For the moment, Stiles is content to just enjoy the right here and now. Because for right now, Derek is here. With him. Where he’s supposed to be.

Stiles leans close to Derek and presses their lips together. It’s the only response he’s capable of forming, but it works. Derek knows he’s been forgiven and lets out a shaky breath as he pulls Stiles into his arms and holds on like he plans to never let go.

As for Stiles, well, he holds on to Derek—the last Hale alive, the last man standing in a family with a deadly, violent history, the new Boss of the Hale crime family and the love of Stiles’s life—just as tight.


End file.
